


The Twelve Days Before Christmas

by MyAnnabell_Lee



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28113909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyAnnabell_Lee/pseuds/MyAnnabell_Lee
Summary: In this crazy one-shot based on the popular Christmas song, Spike spends the twelve days before Christmas trying to find the perfect gift for his lady love for their very first holiday as a couple. Unfortunately, the universe seems hell-bent on keeping him from finding it until the last possible moment! To find a gift worthy of the Slayer, Spike must overcome such obstacles as gooey demons, Christmas crowds, Slayers-in-training, the internet, and Hallmark movies.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Kudos: 10





	The Twelve Days Before Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I am so excited to bring you this story! This fic was written for the amazing kats_meow as part of the EF Secret Santa Exchange! She requested Established Relationship, Humor, and Romance, and I hope I've done her proud!
> 
> beta'd by the inestimable deepbluejoy and MaggieLaFey! Thanks for laughing with me all the way through, ladies!
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**_The 12 Days (Before) Christmas_ **

_ Bloody buggering Christmas with its bloody buggering nonsense! _

Spike could hardly deny his tendency towards romanticism as a general rule, and Christmas did—in theory—provide a wonderful chance to spoil his girl. In reality, though, he’d come to the awful realization that Christmas was simply a means to get him and all the world’s other unfortunate male significant others in trouble. Bloody commercials wherever you looked, all promising that if you bought this trinket or that bauble, she’d be yours for eternity. 

_ Lies _ ! It was all lies. Well, perhaps not completely—after all, they wouldn’t make the adverts if they didn’t work. He wondered, though, if they were meant more to prey upon desperate men’s fears than any actual fact. Most women weren’t swayed by a mere bit of shine these days; least of all, his Slayer. Funny what a few apocalypses and interactions with death would do to a girl’s priorities. Funny what a soul would do to the vampire trying to woo her. 

It hadn’t been easy to get here, after all, and Spike would be damned again before he wasted a chance to really impress her on their first “big holiday” together. Fate and the Powers that Be had already done him more of a solid than he deserved by crossing their paths during the Black Thorn debacle. Bloody Angel had had them all ready to take on the whole of hell with nothing but piss and vinegar; Spike had been prepared to dust. No reason not to, really. If he took out a respectable amount of the bastards, all the better. 

But no sooner had they lined up to charge than an entire battalion of Slayers seemed to pop out of the fucking walls! Portals, they’d said. Well, whatever they’d done, it was dramatic and effective. Between good old Angel Investigations and the Slayer forces, they’d actually managed to win the day. Spike had spent the entire battle looking for a very specific head of bouncy blonde hair without success. Imagine his surprise, then, when the battle was over and he turned around only to have his bloody head nearly taken off. His Slayer had been brassed-off—to put it lightly—that he’d neglected to find her after his miraculous rebirth. In true Buffy Summers fashion, she’d slugged him good; then, for good measure, she’d hauled up and kissed him nearly back to life. 

It had been a long, sometimes frustrating road from there. With Angel’s team dismantled, he’d been at loose ends; so when Buffy asked him to come back to London with her to help rebuild the Council and train the new Slayers, Spike had thought for all of a millisecond before agreeing. They’d spent months having seemingly endless conversations about how to move forward—if they’d move forward at all. After years of pursuing his girl, he’d found himself on the other side of the equation: she’d chased him with a vengeance and he’d played the reluctant lover, fighting both the guilt and habits of their previous relationship. She’d worn him down, though. Of course she had—his Slayer was no pushover. Eventually, she’d convinced him to give the two of them another try, reminding him again and again that they were a long way from Sunnydale and the people that they’d been there. 

Thus far, it had been wonderful. And he didn’t just mean the sex—although, that was certainly worth noting as the absolute brilliance that it was. For all their angst, they’d always matched well in that arena. It was different now, though. Before, he’d have given anything for her crumbs, miserably resigned that they were all he’d ever know. Now, he had the whole damn cookie, and it was  _ glorious _ ! If the Slayer had been passionate in the hateful sex they’d indulged in before, she was Aphrodite herself when she did it in love; all warm, inviting hands, iridescent golden hair, and a cunny that could drive a man to his knees. That was to say nothing of the little smile she got when she did something particularly lovely, like pulling him into an alcove in the giant Watcher’s headquarters and sucking on him like a lolly until he went off. After the third time, the baby Slayers began to express worries of a ghost or some sort of tortured soul in the house. 

So here they were, several months into this new relationship, and there was finally a major holiday. One that required gifts. Spike felt confident when it came to things like surprising her with her favorite chocolate or an unexpected full-body massage with guava oil—talk about scent association; just the smell of it gave him a hard-on these days. He was good with that. They were little things; things to remind her that he loved her and thought of her and cherished her. But Christmas...Christmas was a different beast altogether. Christmas was a time for grand shows of affection and proving how well you knew your partner by getting them something completely perfect that they’d never suspect. 

Spike was, in a word, screwed. 

Twelve days stood between him and Christmas morning, and he had nothing. Nada. Zip. Rien. Niente! 

It didn’t help that she’d begun to hint about his own present. If the red witch and the credit card bills that he’d accidentally-on-purpose noticed on her counter were to be believed, it was rather a significant something, though he didn’t know what. Part of him felt pleasantly warm at the thought of her actually choosing, buying, wrapping, and giving him a gift—especially if it involved being naked when she gave it to him. Maybe in front of a warm fire? With jingle bell pasties on her nipples that would ting-a-ling every time he pushed into her? That would be a right brilliant prezzie, he thought. 

Well, that settled it, didn’t it? He’d have to come up with something  _ spectacular _ .

  
  


**_T-12 days_ **

Spike figured that the best place to start would be the shops. What was a city good for, if not rampant consumerism? He got away from her for the night with an excuse of wanting to check out a local poker game at one of London’s numerous demon haunts. She merely rolled her eyes and made him promise not to do anything gross, like trading in koalas or something. 

Really, as though he’d waste something like a koala at a bloody poker game. Koalas were for the backrooms of Vegas or Monte Carlo, not a pub in the middle of Croydon. Slayer didn’t need to know that, though; just needed to see him smile like a good boy so she wouldn’t suspect where he was really going. 

Spike had lived all over the world, seen just about everything from wars to fancy balls to fucking Woodstock; but as he worked his way through the crowds just twelve days before Christmas, he figured that he’d finally found his way into hell. The streets weren’t just crowded, they were almost impassable. Everywhere around him people pushed, shoved, and generally cursed each other’s mum for every little thing. When he picked up a shiny snow globe with the London Eye on the inside at one of the larger shops, a feisty old woman actually whacked him with her purse, declaring that she’d seen it first. 

He tried the tiny, out-of-the-way shops too, but with no more luck. In larger department stores, the employees had the empty-eyed stare of those who knew they were underpaid and had to escape the madness somehow. In the smaller boutique shops, the employees tended to look down their noses at anyone who thought themselves worthy of purchasing their unique merchandise. What the fuck did anyone need with specialty soap made with yak’s milk, potato water, and essential oils? Why was oil essential? It just made him snort and sneeze. A no-go there. 

The specialty book place was a flop too—while his Slayer had many stunning attributes to her name, a desire for book-learning was not among them. Spike, on the other hand, found several titles that sparked his interest. The early edition book of Keats poems was put on layaway for a later date, but he did buy the “50 Shades of Chicken” and “Cooking with Semen” cookbooks, for his part of the Dirty Santa game Red had roped them all into. If he were very lucky, Harris would be the one to open them. 

He made his way through three more little shops like Noah paddle-boating through the flood: a novelty item shop where he found a shirt with fangs on the front that said “Bite Me”, but that was probably a bit too on the nose; an old-fashioned weapons shop that was run by an overly friendly Nordic-looking woman— _ No thanks, luv, really don’t need to check out your “wares” _ . And finally, a specialty lingerie store. Spike spent quite a bit of time there—all for research, naturally. By the time he decided that the Slayer might take his gift of frilly underthings as mostly self-serving and superficial, he’d held up at least thirty different ones, pictured his goddess in each of them, and given himself one helluva stiffy. The shopgirl had started to give him funny looks. 

Spike looked down the streets, trying to work up the motivation to wade through the quagmire of Christmas shoppers. He’d about decided to give it up for the night when he caught a lovely scent on the breeze. He craned his head around to pin it down— _ there _ ! It took two people stepping on his toes and one bratty child biting him for bumping into her—he may or may not have flashed a bit of fang to make her squeal—but he eventually made it to the little bakery aptly named You Need Biscuits. Talk about to-the-point marketing. 

The inside of the bakery was warm, the scents sugary and sweet. Soft Christmas music played in the background, and a plump, grandmotherly woman bustled about laying out freshly decorated confections. It was all so sweet it made his teeth ache. It was perfect! Buffy loved sugary things.

Figuring he should get down to business before fate intervened on his perfect find and some sort of slime-demon attacked, Spike marched towards the register. The elderly proprietor smiled at him warmly and asked what he’d like. Looking at the mountainous piles of baked goods, Spike frowned and said, “Not sure, really. Lookin’ for something nice for my bird.” 

The woman laughed good-naturedly and set her tray down. “Well, you’ve come to the right place, my boy. I have it on good authority that women enjoy a good biscuit!” She patted her belly and winked conspiratorially. “What's your lady like, then?” 

Brain still somewhat hung up on the lovely items from the last store, Spike resisted the urge to answer that she liked his dick just fine and could the lady make him some biscuits shaped like that? But no, he was being a good boy, and asking the nice granny to make him dick biscuits would get him shooed out at best. 

He looked carefully at the array of treats and finally sighed in defeat. “Don’t rightly know which she’d like best. Can’t I get a bit of everything?”

“Of course, lad. Why not get her the dozen? I’ll make sure you get the best of the lot!” 

Spike nodded happily and watched as the lady chose out twelve different biscuits and laid them carefully in a box. This had been the right choice, he thought. Maybe not the most meaningful Christmas gift, and certainly not the only thing he’d get her—he was still considering that one bit of satiny sin he’d found at the lingerie shop—but it would do for now. 

He paid for the goods and, feeling unusually high-spirited, waved happily at the woman on the way out the door. There, trip successful.

  
  


**_T-11 Days_ **

Bloody buggering baby bints! 

It was all their fault. Who the hell saw a perfectly lovely tray of biscuits on the counter and decided that meant it was for them? Apparently, the mini Slayers. He’d only left the box unguarded for a moment in the kitchen while he’d gone to find Buffy. He’d had a plan, goddammit! He’d arranged the biscuits on a pretty tray, meaning to bring her into the kitchen on some sort of fictitious emergency. Then, she’d see the biscuits, fawn over his sweet, thoughtful manliness, and maybe be so thrilled that she’d have her wicked way with him on the kitchen floor while eating some of them. 

But  _ no _ , instead of sweet Buffy moans of delight while she rode him into sugar-fueled oblivion, he’d gotten the sounds of chomping and girly giggles. His heart had dropped into his stomach as he’d run into the kitchen. There they stood, laughing as though they weren’t black-hearted biscuit thieves! Slayer hadn’t liked it when he’d started yelling; told him that she understood he was upset, but it still wasn’t okay to use “words like that” to describe young women. He’d stood fuming until she’d leaned in and kissed his cheek sweetly, saying it was the thought that counted and she was sure they’d been the best biscuits ever. 

That was last night. With only eleven days to go, Spike went back to the drawing board. He still had no idea what to get her, and he didn’t yet feel brave enough to go out to the shops again; he wasn’t convinced that people weren’t demonically possessed this time of year. He sat down with a pad of paper and tried to make a list of things she liked, to help him brainstorm. It was an extensive list, to be sure, but he kept getting distracted and scribbling pitiful lines about her hair and eyes. 

When Buffy came into his room an hour later, he frantically shoved the pad into a drawer and hoped she didn’t notice. She smiled and asked if he had plans for the evening. Well, no, as a matter of fact. His list-making hadn’t panned out, so he didn’t have a ruddy clue what he was doing with his unlife, let alone his evening. 

He should have noticed the mischievous look in her eye. He should have felt the instinctive suspicion that’s supposed to kick in when a woman gives her man  _ that  _ particular smile. That smile that says he’s about to have to do something he probably won’t want to do. And not even in the sexy way, which can still be enjoyable if you do it right. 

So, with his instincts away on holiday and his list a flop, Spike found himself curled up on the couch in front of the telly with his girl. He’d expected one of the classics,  _ Miracle on 34th Street _ , perhaps?  _ A Christmas Carol _ ? Bloody  _ Frosty the Snowman _ ? No. Oh, no. Conniving minx that she was, Buffy had him—William the Fucking Bloody, Slayer and Layer of Slayers—watching the Hallmark Channel. Spike figured this was the final sign of the end times and they’d likely be in the middle of another apocalypse come morning. The things he did for his woman. 

Apparently, there was a marathon going. He’d expected to watch one, maybe two before being unable to stand it anymore. They were all the same damn thing anyway. A (single/high powered/lonely/stuck-up) man or woman found themselves in a small (town/bookshop/cafe/B&B) where they met a (former lover/sexy single parent/undercover member of royalty) and fell in love against their better judgment. Lather, rinse, and bloody repeat. 

The shows were bewitched, somehow. That was the only explanation he had for why he was still watching at sunrise, eleven movies later. Buffy had fallen asleep on movie three. He could have turned it off, picked her up, and taken her off to bed; he wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t. They really must be cursed. It wasn’t as though he’d enjoyed them—even if he had, maybe, possibly, felt a smidgen of panic when it looked like Sarah wouldn’t choose the lonely cowboy after all and Santa had come to save the day. 

Spike felt the oncoming day like an itch at the back of his neck. He stretched on the couch, careful not to jostle his sleepy love, and sat for a moment, bewildered. What had he done? Wasted an entire night on sodding romance films? If he was going to do that, why hadn’t he just found a good skin flick? Same concept, really. Boy meets girl—or girls—falls in lu-love, and they all live happily ever after! He resolved to check with Rupert in the morning. Even if his brain had completely shut down and subjected him to that much campy romance, the timing didn’t make sense. He shouldn’t have been able to watch eleven films in one night—shouldn’t physically be possible. He suspected a time spell or an alternate dimension. Whatever it was, the mystical force behind the Hallmark Channel deserved to be hunted down and eliminated. The world deserved freedom from mediocre writing and giant plot holes. 

Buffy woke right about the time he started to nod off himself. She laughed at his excuse of staying up all night to protect her from stray Christmas elves and sent him off to bed for the day. He smiled sleepily, dropped a kiss on her nose, and promised himself that he’d figure out the perfect gift later that night. 

  
  


**_T-10 Days_ **

The universe was against him. That was all he could think of that made any sort of sense; and he’d considered everything, from bad luck to gremlins to an active gypsy curse, before coming to that conclusion. Why the universe had it out for a poor vamp on the hunt for the perfect Christmas gift for his lady love, he didn’t know. Someone up there was laughing at him, though, he was sure. 

It had started out well enough. Still unwilling to go back out to the shops unless he absolutely had to, Spike had braved the laptop Willow had given him a while back. When he’d blustered and asked why a centuries-old master vampire needed a sodding computer, she’d rolled her eyes and waxed poetic on the benefits of being computer-literate and all the wondrous things technology could do. That wasn’t even to mention—she said with a secret, mischievous smile—free internet porn. Spike hadn’t left his room for a solid two days; when he’d emerged, hair askew and body as limp as an overcooked noodle, the witch had blushed a shade of red not unlike her hair and scampered away. Buffy had simply smirked and asked if he’d learned anything new. 

All that to say, Spike was very quickly brought into the technological age, and he felt confident that he could find something appropriate for Buffy’s Christmas gift on the internet. 

_ Christmas presents for girl _

Well, that wasn’t a good start. Buffy was a bit past Barbie dolls and play make-up, he thought. 

_ Christmas presents for a woman _

Better. It was all so generic, though. One website swore that she’d love her new custom-made days-of-the-week socks, while another warned that a Christmas without something from Tiffany’s spelled trouble for any serious relationship. Balls. No good. What did Buffy like? Buffy liked weapons.

_ Weapons for girlfriend _

Was she a “girlfriend”? They’d decided that calling themselves “boyfriend” or “girlfriend” felt too immature—he was not a bloody boy, thank you very much. Boys didn’t do the kinds of things he did to her body. But for the purposes of a Google search, why not?

Oh, for fuck’s sake! It seemed the only requirement for the weapons he found were that they were pink—which  _ obviously  _ made them fit for women. Bloody hell. Besides, the last thing he needed was Buffy Summers with pepper spray. Damn fine warrior that she was, the woman also found ways to trip over her own shoes. Giving her something like pepper spray was just asking her to spray it into an oncoming wind and end up blind. 

_ Safe presents for girlfriend _

The very first suggestion about did him in for the night. “Symbolically Adopt a Wombat”. What the bleedin’ fuck? What kind of wanker wraps up a plush toy-wombat, gives it to his girl, and says—what would you even say? “Here, darling, I wanted to do something meaningful for you. Here’s a stuffed marsupial since it’s probably illegal to have a real one.” 

Fuck safe. For his Slayer, go big or go home. His current searches were yielding less than satisfactory results, so Spike wracked his brain for a better idea. 

_ Unique gifts to impress a lady _

That was better, he thought. Getting closer, possibly. He scrolled through the search results carefully. There were many good ideas, most of which revolved around unique jewelry pieces. He wasn’t sure, however, if jewelry was the way to go. “Unique” jewelry seemed much more a Red thing than something for Buffy. He was also fairly sure that his lady wouldn’t be impressed by a 3D puzzle with her name all over it. 

She was unique already—Christ knew there was likely only a handful of Buffies on the planet. She’d never seemed ashamed of her name and in fact, she’d defended it quite nicely all those years ago when they’d been under Willow’s spell. He considered a necklace with her name in script like the Bit had had several years back. No—wait. She’d said something a few weeks ago about not wearing necklaces anymore after too many fights with grabby demons. 

_ Not jewelry gifts for a lady _

Spike very seriously considered tossing the idiot machine out the window when the very first result came up as “Best jewelry gifts for your lady”. Instead, he forced himself to take a deep breath and keep going. He was nothing if not adaptable. He was a master vampire of the Aurelian line, after all. He would not be outdone or overcome by a sodding box of wires and circuits. 

_ What to get your significant other for Christmas _

Spike rather liked the photo book idea. That seemed like a bit of all right. Except...he didn’t think they’d ever actually taken a photograph together. It had been an age since he’d even been photographed by himself. Dru had gone through a phase back in the early 1900s, making him find some poor fool with a camera every night for nearly three weeks. She’d dressed herself—and him—in all sorts of foolish things and demanded a picture of each whim. Spike was glad the evidence had blown up with the rest of his crypt back in Sunnyhell. 

It was a good idea, but hardly one he could pull off in the next few days. Maybe next year. He’d spend the whole of the year taking pictures of Buffy in all states—mostly naked, probably—and he’d present her with the book then. 

_ What does my lover want for Christmas _

The moment the bloody stuffed wombat popped up again, he was done. The internet had failed, he had failed, and he’d have to look elsewhere for his answers. While he was here, though...

_ Do demons run hallmark _

Huh, there was a whole slew of conspiracy theories as it turned out. 

_ Nearest pub to me  _

Well, he knew what he was doing the rest of the night. Stupid fucking computers. 

  
  


**_T-9 Days_ **

Another night down the drain after the debacle with Google. And tonight looked to be a wash as well. There had been rumblings for several weeks of a rising evil something-or-other there in Merry Old, and it seemed that the years hadn’t dulled the Scoobies’ instincts for research ‘parties’. Now, as Buffy’s one and mostly-accepted boyfr—significant other, Spike had no excuses to skip out. 

So that’s how he found himself—instead of scouring the land for the perfect gift for his lady love as he’d planned—stuck at a table with a mug of lukewarm blood and four books written in Latin. Hadn’t that been a surprise to them? Spike had quite enjoyed their faces when ol’ Rupes had rattled off something from a musty old book one day and Spike had popped off with a passable translation without so much as a by-your-leave. He knew they all assumed he’d been an uneducated street thug before he’d been turned, but a man had his pride. A man also had a lady to impress; the look on her face when he’d whispered dirty nothings to her in Latin as he’d fucked her slowly up against one of the walls of the training room later had left him with the distinct impression that she was very much impressed.

Spike pulled himself out of his memories with a huff. No time for a stiffy just then. Translation first, foiling of someone else’s evil plans next, and gift-hunting last. He glanced at the wall calendar nervously, trying to assure himself that he still had plenty of time. 

To say his first book was useless was to damn it with faint praise. He wasn’t even sure why it was in his pile; he doubted they needed an ancient book about proper animal husbandry techniques. 

His second was also useless, but at least mildly more interesting. It was a history of demon attacks in ancient Rome. One of the chapters detailed an account of a slimy demon interrupting some poor blighter’s wedding. According to the book, that particular demon had a warped sense of smell, and the scent of the bride’s bouquet was so offensive that it left its hideout and massacred the entire party. Shakespeare would have had a field day with that lot. 

Buffy interrupted the perusal of his third book with a question about something she’d read in hers. Well, at least hers was about the correct species of demon they were supposed to be researching. Letting Harris hand him books might not have been Spike’s most inspired idea. 

Spike answered her question and got through about a page of his book before Red interrupted them, going on a ten-minute rabbit trail having to do with the similarities between some demon languages in her book and the modern romance languages. That opened up a door for Rupert to give an example from  _ his  _ book that showed where a certain species of demon had settled near a village of humans and had led to a merging of their customs and languages. Spike just wanted to finish his own sodding book and go home. With any luck, the Slayer would pick up on his hints about ‘being tired’ and he could convince her to have a bit of fun under the staircase like a pair of naughty children. 

Rupert finally let off when the Slayer interrupted him—not that Spike subtly adjusting his pants every few moments until she’d noticed had anything to do with that. He gave her a wicked leer and enjoyed the way her eyes flashed. She did a lovely job refocusing everyone with a threat to withhold the traditional pizza until they’d found something. 

Aside from the brief moment of panic when Harris unintentionally hexed them all to speak Swahili, the rest of the night was uneventful. The clumsy sod had just read a line willy-nilly from his book—never a good idea when reading books for demon research. Thankfully, Rupert was quick on the draw and found the counter-hex before Willow and Buffy could complete a ridiculous rendition of the Lion King’s greatest hits. 

Just as they were all ready to give up for the night, Willow found something useful in one of her books. As it turned out, they had uncanny timing: the evil demon they were anticipating was set to rise the very next night. Spike thought that they really should have seen it coming. A full moon that close to the winter solstice? Of course some enterprising baddy would take advantage. Really, he was almost ashamed of himself for not thinking of it earlier. Soon they’d be asking for his Evil Inc. card back. Not that he’d done much evil since signing up for Team Slayer, but it was the principle of the matter. 

The tired group had trudged to their respective rooms. Well, most of them, anyway. Spike had been prepared to kiss his girl good night and send her off to bed. She was still very much a night owl, but hours of staring at old books would put anyone to sleep, and she’d certainly looked ready for a kip in the library. Imagine his surprise then, when she waved Red off to her room, turned around, and snogged him right there on the staircase. 

“Well, well, Slayer. Skipping right to molesting me in public, are you?” 

“Shut up and talk Latin to me, Spike.”

If his lady commanded. 

  
  


**_T-8 Days_ **

Spike didn’t like to speak ill of demons in general—hello, vampire—but the ones they were waiting for were downright inconsiderate. It was like they knew he was way behind on his search for Buffy’s present and were purposefully waiting until the last moment to appear. 

He’d spent a few minutes before they’d left trying the ruddy internet again; no time to go to any shops, after all. The best idea so far was a word-a-day calendar with pictures of an unhappy cat on each day. God help him, she was going to laugh him out of England. 

So, instead of continuing his search, here he sat on a tombstone for Mrs. Euberta Philpott, waiting. The only humor he could see was that the humans in the group were far more miserable than he was at that moment. England had a burr up its arse that night and was unseasonably cold. Didn’t bother him any, but watching Harris shiver and shake was amusing. Rupert was predictably stiff-upper-lippy as any good Brit would be, and Buffy huddled up with Red—which was just fine with him, really. He had time, obviously. A little fantasizing wouldn’t hurt anyone. 

Spike had just gotten to the part where two Buffys were on opposite ends of a double-sided dildo and hollering his name—it was his fantasy, sod off—when their expected evil decided to make an appearance. Evil, as it turned out, was eight slimy brown demons protecting one giant red and white bugger that could have been Santa in some sort of acid-fueled nightmare. 

The Slayer wasted no time and jumped right in for the big fellow, leaving the eight slimy bastards for the rest of them. Which really meant him, usually. Red was usually good for at least one takedown, but magic was still a sensitive subject for the bird, and her willingness to use it in the field was still hit-and-miss. Rupert had the training to keep himself safe for the most part, but was getting on in years whether he wanted to admit it or not. Harris was just useless in general, in Spike’s opinion. 

Spike wished they’d just stayed home. All right, so someone needed to do the incantation to send Devil Santa back to whatever dimension he’d crawled out of, but he and Slayer could take care of it. The others just complicated matters and distracted the real fighters. 

At least, that’s what he’d thought before Red went and surprised him with some spell that blew up all the slimy brown ones like putrid demon piñatas. On the one hand, no more minions. On the other, brown demon innards all over his leather. Everyone—including Buffy and the big guy—just sort of stopped after they blew up. Then, as though they all realized it at the same time, everyone’s attention shifted to Devil Santa, who just looked thoroughly put out. 

One would think that after disposing of his entourage, getting the better of Santa himself would have been easy. Spike ought to have known better than to tempt the PTB with thoughts like that. What actually happened was that their opponent went on a rampage and started swinging his fists about like some sort of demonic King Kong. 

Still distracted from all the demon insides—what with them being on the outside now—Buffy hadn’t seen the large meaty fist headed her way. When it caught her on the side of the head and sent her flying, Spike saw red. Before anyone had a chance to call out a warning, he was already on the bastard’s back with his fangs buried in his neck. 

Some of the brown minion goo dripped down from his hair into his eyes as he held onto the bucking beast, but he couldn’t take the risk of moving one of his hands, so he furiously swiped his head against Devil Santa’s shoulder. Bad move. Really bad move, actually. Devil Santa’s skin had some sort of oily substance on it that reacted with the minion goo and made his eyes burn. 

All of a sudden, he heard the Slayer yell for him to let go and duck. No sooner had he done so than he heard the distinct swish of her axe through the air and the thud of Santa’s now severed head hitting the ground. Spike stayed sitting for a moment, furiously rubbing at his eyes while Buffy ran over to help him, yelling at the Three Stooges to get some water. Thankfully, this was one of the more modern cemeteries, and there was a water spigot nearby to rinse his eyes. 

Once they finally rid themselves of all traces of the brown goo, they took stock of injuries: other than his eyes, they’d successfully averted a potential Christmas apocalypse with only one sprained ankle. It was Harris’s, of course. The whelp couldn’t seem to tie his shoes without harming himself. Sometimes Spike was amazed that it had taken so long for the boy to lose a body part permanently. He’d never said it, of course—he wasn’t that big of a wanker, these days. Usually. 

The upside to the whole experience was his Slayer looping her arm through his and leading him home, where she proceeded to pamper, praise, and just generally treat him like a prince. She even did the special thing with her tongue that she only did when he was an especially good boy. Really, if he got that kind of treatment every time he got demon innards in his eyes, he’d volunteer for it every week!

  
  


**_T-7 Days_ **

One week. Seven bloody days until Christmas, and Spike still didn’t have a gift for his girl. What kind of useless sod was he? Did all men have such trouble picking out a single gift? Surely not. There was no way that men would willingly subject themselves to such torture on a yearly basis. 

Buffy walked into the room from the bathroom in just a pair of tiny, lacy red knickers and a matching bra. Spike realized that he’d been wrong—that was why men would subject themselves to pain and suffering. That right there. Buffy’s beautiful, bouncy breasts were more than enough reason to go to war or endure the special hell that was the shops at Christmastime. 

He watched her from his seat at his desk. She stood in front of the mirror she’d insisted he have installed if he wanted her to spend any amount of time in his room and brushed her hair. She was humming something under her breath that might have been  _ Jingle Bells _ if he squinted hard enough. Bless his girl—when not under demonic influence, she couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. 

“Hey, Spike?”

“Yes, luv?”

“Wanna go with me to do a little shopping?” 

Well, that was suspiciously fortuitous. He’d finally found something promising in his Google searches: a little book shop near King’s College that sold out-of-print books by female authors. That sounded like it could potentially have something interesting to his warrior goddess. Maybe they had art prints? An old weapon of Boudica’s? It was worth a look, anyway. 

Buffy switched tunes and was warbling some bastardized version of  _ Frosty the Snowman _ as she put on her boots and coat. He pulled on his trusty duster, thanking all listening deities that he didn’t have to bundle up like some sort of over-stuffed penguin. Not that his girl didn’t look cute as a button all swaddled in wool. The little pink hat with the poof on top was almost too precious for words, and it all but begged him to kiss her forehead. And her nose. And her cheeks. And her lips. And her—

An hour (or two) later, Spike once again found himself shuffling through the roiling masses. Buffy said she still needed to find something for the Niblet and Red, so he just held tightly to her hand and let her lead him wherever she needed to go. He was man enough to admit that having the Slayer on his arm made him feel marginally safer against the old biddies milling about. The soft strains of  _ Silent Night  _ coming from speakers around the square was deceptive when there was nothing silent about this lot; he caught snatches of curse words in at least five languages as they made their way through the door of a clothing shop. 

Buffy pulled him inside and shivered noticeably. “You’d think with all those people, we’d have enough body heat to keep warm out there!”

“Err…don't’ think that’s the way it works, pet.”

She sniffed delicately. “Well, it should be! If I have to put up with all that craziness, I should at least get to be warm.” 

Spike laughed and went to wrap his arms around her. “C’mere, baby, I’ll warm you up proper.” 

She shoved him playfully, making him bump into a middle-aged woman who looked like she’d been sucking lemons for a few decades. “Oh no, Mr. Ice Block. You can have lovin’ after you’ve had a hot shower or something. Till then, no snuggles for you!” 

_ Crazy bird _ , he thought as he rolled his eyes and followed her around the store. He was bored out of his skull for most of it, but he did pay enough attention to notice when she ohh-ed or ahh-ed at something. That information was carefully tucked away in case it came down to a last-minute need to put  _ something _ under the tree for her. Some dozy bint crooned annoyingly about “all I want for Christmas is you,” as though it were that easy. He did briefly toy with the idea of showing up Christmas morning with a pretty red bow around his dick, playing that song in the background....

Buffy found what she was looking for— _ thank Christ _ —and they were off to the next shop. The crowds hadn’t thinned in the slightest, reinforcing Spike’s growing belief that there was some kind of grand demonic conspiracy surrounding the holiday. Hallmark was just one part of a much larger plot, he was sure. 

The speakers around the square were now playing a smooth, blissful song about “golden days of yore,” and it suddenly occurred to him how different it all looked from when he’d been alive. In that time, Christmas had been a time of family and quiet joy. Granted, his mother had insisted that most of their holiday season was spent in church or at small dinner parties. Maybe there had been a whole cult of pushy, materialistic Victorian-era people who drank heavily and read shoddy romance novels together, and he just hadn’t been invited. 

Buffy hummed what he thought was supposed to be  _ It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas _ , her hand clasped tightly with his. They only needed to go one more place and decided that slow and steady was much preferable to quick and trampled. Spike focused on the sound of her voice and the feel of her warm, gloved hand in his, and found himself enjoying it all for a moment. 

The trek through the second shop was blessedly uneventful, but it still felt like it took an age to get away from the throng and back to the car. By the time they got home, Spike didn’t have the energy to continue his search. Especially when Buffy leaned over the top of his chair and sang the  _ I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus _ song into his ear while running her little fingers down to  _ his _ jingle bells. 

There was always tomorrow. 

  
  


**_T-6 Days_ **

Spike was beginning to lose hope. So far the shops had failed him, the internet had failed him—even Dawn had failed him! He’d finally managed to corner her without Buffy around, and what did the infuriating chit say? “Don’t worry so much, Spike. She’ll love whatever you give her if it comes from the heart.” Well, that was spectacularly unhelpful! Didn’t she know that the last time he’d tried to woo Buffy with something ‘from the heart’, she’d been in chains and he’d ended up disinvited from her house?

What was he supposed to do? Make her sodding macaroni art shaped like a heart like a child? Get her knickers with ‘property of Spike’ on the arse? No, Bit had said from the heart, not the dick. 

What was he good at? It wasn’t as though she needed help with any of his more...real-life skills. No one needed to be threatened and nothing needed to be nicked. He guessed he could offer to teach her to play poker, but that didn’t scream grand romantic gesture to him. 

Spike wasn’t sure what other talents he poss—wait. He could...there was always…

No.  _ Bloody hell, no! _ He’d sworn over a century ago that there would be no more of...of  _ that _ . No matter that he’d gotten a surprisingly warm reception from the crowd in LA. They’d all been drunk and would have cheered on anyone who could recite  _ The Cat in the Hat _ . 

He absolutely, definitely, assuredly was not going to try to write her a poem. 

Where had his pens gotten off to? 

_ There once was a Slayer named Buffy _

_ Who started right uptight and stuffy _

He imagined her expression at reading that. Probably not the best idea to start his gift with something that would make her want to hit him. 

_ I once knew a lass with bright golden hair _

_ Who staked lots of vamps with style and flair _

At least that was complementary. He wasn’t sure that reminding her of staking vampires was a good idea, though, just in case she didn’t like the gift. Maybe he ought to give her a stake to off him, on the chance he didn’t spontaneously combust from embarrassment. 

_ The Slayer’s the pinnacle of all that is good _

_ She likes it best when I give her my wood.  _

The dent he’d made in his wall with all the head-banging was likely permanent. How would he explain that one? Things weren’t looking good. 

Spike tried to focus on what he loved about her. Really, there was so much to choose from that it should have been a matter of having too much material. So why was it so hard? 

_ The sight of my love in blissful rest _

_ Resplendent hair splayed on my chest. _

That wasn’t...terrible. He did love her hair. One of the only bright moments of their previous relationship had been one time when she’d laid him out and ordered him to stay still. Normally she was down to business, all wham-bam-thank you ma’am, but for whatever reason that day she’d wanted to play. She’d tilted her head to let her hair drag against his skin and teased him with it from head to toe. The feel of her silky hair sliding against his cock had threatened to set him off like a roman candle. She’d taken perverse pleasure in dragging it out, seeing how long she could keep him on edge by taking her hair in her hand and using it like a paintbrush on his most sensitive places. It had taken less time than he liked to admit for him to lose control; not his fault she was such a creative minx. Eventually, after he’d all but sobbed for her to let him come, she’d lost her patience and bounced on his cock like a pogo stick until they both collapsed. He wondered if he could convince her to do it again. 

_ Her love—my only saving grace _

_ My soul for a smile upon her face _

A bit melodramatic, maybe. He was nothing if not a reflection of his upbringing, however. This reminded Spike of Buffy’s expression when he’d finally given in and agreed to try for a ‘them’: she’d looked so relieved, as though he’d given her some great gift. He’d never had someone look so thrilled to catch him…he’d never had anyone chase him to begin with. 

_ No gift need I, no grail divine _

_ So long as you, my love, are mine.  _

He sat for longer than he cared to admit, staring at the words on the page. They mocked him, echoes of voices long dead cackling in his mind until he crumpled the paper in his hands and threw it into the trash. There were many ways he’d grown past the man he’d been before he’d died. Some scars never truly faded, though, and he’d never forgive himself if he spoiled things with the wrong words—again. 

He didn’t have it in him to try again that night, so he sat in front of the telly with a bottle of Jack and watched the Hallmark Channel until he passed out. 

  
  


**_T-5 Days_ **

He woke up in a right foul mood the next evening. The previous night’s endeavors had done a number on him, and he used a supposed hangover as an excuse to stay away from everyone. As far as he was concerned, he’d never find the right gift for his girl. She’d wake on Christmas morning to no perfect gift—no gift at all with his luck—and she’d realize that he was a useless wanker not worthy of her or her love. In some of his imaginings, she left him right away. Just stomped away in an insulted huff and never came back, her group of clucking slayer-hens behind her. In others, she tried to be gracious about it. Tried to play it so that he wouldn’t know how awful she felt, except that he already did. It was a slow death, that one. 

Buffy found him in his room a few hours later, her cheeks and nose still red from being outside. She always seemed to find ways to redefine the word  _ beauty _ for him. He didn’t want to tell her why he was upset, but he knew she didn’t believe him when she asked and he responded with an “I’m fine”. She regarded him carefully for a moment, like he was a puzzle for her to solve; then told him to get his boots on. 

“Why?” 

“Cuz you’ll look silly outside in bare feet. Also, frostbite. Wait, can vampires get frostbite?”

As a matter of fact, they could, and it wasn’t pretty, so boots it was. When she suggested that he grab some stakes, he raised an eyebrow. 

“Ah, so that’s it, then? Come to drag me out of my nice warm bed and into the cold just so you can do me in nice and proper where there’s no one to hear me scream?” 

“Pfft. One, you weren’t in bed. Two, you don’t care if it’s cold. And three, geez, damsel in distress much?” She tucked three stakes away on various parts of her person as casually as someone else might put away socks. 

“Planning to meet an army, are we?” 

She shrugged and tucked her arm into his elbow. “To quote the great work of art, The Lion King, I will ‘be prepared’.” 

Spike looked at her incredulously. “You know most people credit the Boy Scouts with that saying.” 

“Do they? What can I say, I was a Disney kid.” 

Spike shook his head but followed along like the dog’s tail. Patrolling in London was usually surprisingly quiet. Apparently, the knowledge that there was a whole building filled with Slayers was enough to keep most reasonable demons away. There was the odd fledge and up-and-coming Big Bad; but for the most part, patrolling was uneventful. Usually, that was all right with him. That night, however, he found himself missing the action of a hellmouth. A good brawl would put him to rights, he was sure. 

The heavens were listening just that once, it seemed. No sooner had he formed the desire than they stumbled on a group of fledglings. There were eight altogether, and they all looked to have been at some sort of ugly Christmas sweater party when they died. Really, would it hurt people to have some pride? He knew vampires weren’t often the best examples of fashion—himself excluded, of course—but no one should be caught dead in a sweater with a sheep wrapped in Christmas lights that said “Fleece Navidad”. Even worse, the lights had actually lit up at one time, though they mostly flickered like demented fireflies at that point. 

Right. Stupid sweaters aside, the vampires had given Spike the perfect outlet for his bad mood. “After me, Slayer!” he hollered gleefully as he sprinted towards the fledges. 

A stake in both hands, Spike spike dove into the fray. Inexperienced as they were, their numbers made them a challenge, and he welcomed it. He lost one of his stakes when he stabbed one of them in the eye with it. Didn’t dust the poor bugger, but it did provide a lovely distraction. The second was lost when one of them got a lucky shot in and kicked it out of his hand. “Slayer, stake me!”

He heard her laugh from somewhere behind him. “Do you know how much I would have paid for you to say that about five years ago?” 

A stake flew up over the heads of the fledges, and he caught it before dramatically burying it in the chest of the one nearest him. Four down, four to go. He caught a glimpse of the Slayer as he rounded to engage the next one. God, but he loved watching her work. Nothing like a valkyrie with bouncy hair and a savage instinct for killing things to give a man a hard-on. 

One of the remaining fledges was trying to sneak up behind her; Spike couldn’t stand dirty pool like that in a fight, so he sent his stake flying through the air and into the tosser’s back. When one of the remaining fledges leapt at him, he managed to break off a small branch from a nearby tree for a makeshift stake and dust her before she had the time to do much more than swing at him. He turned around in time to watch the Slayer do a fabulous one-two move with her stake, taking out both remaining opponents in one go. 

Spike wasn’t sure which one of them moved first, but the next thing he knew they were tangled together with her back up against the side of a crypt while he tried to get her trousers off without ripping them. He was moderately successful. 

As they lay panting in the grass afterwards, Spike felt a renewed sense of purpose. The pity party was over—his woman deserved the very best gift he could find, and by God he was going to find it. He still had four more days! 

  
  


**_T-4 Days_ **

Four days! He still had four days to find the perfect gift for his love! He could do it! He set up his laptop, warmed up a mug of blood with Weetabix crumbled in, and got to work. He’d seen about three (useless) websites when two of the mini Slayers wandered into the dining area where he’d settled. 

“Whatcha doin, Spike?” Reina asked him. Or was it Cora? Reina-Cora? Who the hell knew? New Slayers kept popping up like daisies everywhere he turned. 

“Nothin’ that concerns you, thanks.” 

Rachel-Cathy was one of those girls that heard “No” and translated it as “Yes” in her head. In her mind, what he’d said translated roughly as, “Deary me, I'm in a spot of trouble! Won’t you be so kind as to stick your nose right in my business? There’s a dear.” Her companion seemed less inclined to engage him and stayed behind Roberta-Claudine, twitching like a nervous puppy. 

“Ooo, Christmas shopping! I need to finish mine. Whatcha gettin’ Buffy?”

He took a long sip of his blood and wondered if he’d get into too much trouble if he told her exactly where she could put her nosy little questions. Didn’t see him going around poking his nose into other people’s shopping, did you? Although, come to think of it, maybe he should. Red ought to have a few good ideas as to what to get Buffy. Maybe he could ‘borrow’ one and—

“You should totally get food. Like fancy shmancy, stuck-up person food. Like those expensive chocolates they cover with edible gold.” 

What the—“Why?” 

Rosie-Christine shrugged. “Girls like chocolate. In fact, it’s kind of essential to our survival. Ergo, you buy girl fancy chocolate, girl is happy!” 

His Slayer did like chocolate. Was chocolate—even fancy chocolate—really good enough for a  _ first _ Christmas gift? Spike didn’t think so. It seemed like something a fellow did on a first date or some minor holiday where the gift was mostly lip service. 

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll remember that.” 

Roxanne-Cecilia rolled her eyes at his apparent inability to appreciate her genius, took her friend’s arm, and left. Good. Spike finished his first cup and set another one in the microwave to heat, this one with a bit of chocolate because they’d put him in a mood. 

He’d found a little tea room fairly nearby and was questioning the possibility of setting up an appointment for Buffy and her little friends as a gift. Let them do tea, cakes, the whole ball of wax. He’d about talked himself into it when Harris strolled in, happily munching away on an apple. Who ate apples at this time of night? 

“What’s up, Spike? Checking out the butcher shops for bad reviews?”

No, but that wasn’t a terrible idea. The place he currently had delivering to him couldn’t tell the difference between pig and parakeet. Spike didn’t answer, just grunted and got his new mug of blood from the beeping microwave. 

Harris, being the nosy sod that he was, peeked around to see the screen. “Ohh, a tea room? You and Giles feeling the need to bond?” 

“No, you git! Was thinkin’ I might set up a time for Buffy and Red to go. You know, get the whole British lady experience.” 

Xander peered closer at the pictures and frowned. “You sure that’s a good idea?” 

“What do you mean? Sure I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

Xander shrugged helplessly. “I don't know. Just doesn’t seem like a Buffy thing, you know? She's all with the grrr and hitting things, not putting her pinky in the air to take a sip of hot leaf water.” 

“People don’t actually—do you base your expectations on anything except films?” 

“Nah, I find movies to be pretty darn accurate when depicting the human experience. It certainly prepared me for living in Merry Old, let me tell you. Although there is a distinct lack of waistcoats and random people yelling ‘God save the Queen’ compared to the movies.” 

Spike chuckled good-naturedly. While they’d certainly never be bosom companions, the whelp had made an effort to be less of...well, less of an ass since Spike had joined them in London. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Spike supposed that, in all fairness, the same could be said of him. 

“Sorry to disappoint, mate.” 

“Eh, what is life if not a little disappointment?” Xander stroked his chin as though he were some great philosopher. All he really did was emphasize his need for a shave. 

Spike looked back at the screen and sighed. Well, back to the drawing board. “So, Harris, what would you get a bird for your first Christmas together?” 

“Spike, m’lad , what I would get any girl of mine and what you should get for Buffy are not the same thing.” 

Spike frowned. “Why not? Still a girl, isn’t she?” 

“Well, sure. But she’s...y’know. She’s Buffy.” 

“Had noticed that was her name, yes.” Spike took the last gulp of his drink and rose for another. It was that kind of night. He’d forgotten to eat the previous evening with his little bout of melodrama, and drinking a bit extra certainly couldn’t hurt. 

Xander was still staring at the screen, eyebrows furrowed, when Spike returned with his third mug—cinnamon this time.

“So, what have you thought about so far?” Xander pointed to the screen in question.

Spike rattled off some of the better ideas from the previous nights. He didn’t mention the poems. 

“Hmm, well, cookies were a great idea for just a generic gift, but they wouldn’t have cut it for  _ the _ gift. The photobook will get you major brownie points next year. You might actually have been onto something with the wombat, though.” 

“Not gettin’ the sodding wombat.” 

“Fine, fine. Have you considered jewelry?”

Spike hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have. Don’t want to… s’more personal, innit? What all the adverts say, anyway. Don’t want to pressure the girl without meanin’ to.” 

“I guess that’s fair. For what it’s worth, I think Buffy will be pretty pleased if you get her just about anything other than moldy bread or something. Other than that, I dunno. I just buy everyone funny socks.”

Spike rolled his eyes and huffed at the screen. “There’s gotta be something, right? Something she’d like?” 

“Have you asked her?” 

Spike stopped short. “Can I—isn’t that cheatin’?”

“You cheat at poker all the time!” 

Spike shook his head, running his fingers roughly through his hair. “Yeah, but...supposed to be different, innit?” 

Xander looked like he’d swallowed something rotten for a moment, then reached out hesitantly to pat Spike’s shoulder. “You’ll figure it out.” 

Spike snorted and shrugged him off. “Yeah, sure. Well, go on then. Leave me here to die in the black hole of the internet.” 

Xander shrugged and rose to leave. “You sure? All right, I guess. I’ll check for dust on the floor later in case you decide to try to kill yourself again.” 

“Ta, Harris.”

Once he was alone, Spike glared at the screen, downed his entire mug in one go, and stood to fetch another. It would be a long night. 

  
  


**_T-3 Days_ **

“Bloody hell—watch where you’re going!” 

As committed as Spike was to his Slayer and her cause, living in a house full of girls—even a big house—presented him with many occasions every day to question his remaining sanity. 

Three of the baby Slayers ran by, carrying what looked like slabs of cardboard in their hands. One of them had nearly bowled him over in their hurry to do...whatever fool thing they were doing. Dawn followed behind them at a much slower pace, a big piece of cardboard in her arms too. 

“What’s this, then, Bit?”

Dawn smiled mischievously and gripped her load more tightly. “Ruby had a great idea! We were talking about things we liked to do during winter, and someone mentioned sledding. Everyone thought that sledding sounded like fun, but we don’t have any actual sleds and there aren’t any hills around here. So...we sort of Home-Alone’d it and decided to improvise.” 

“Riiight. And the cardboard is for…?”

“Well, we didn’t have sleds, but we did get those huge boxes with training equipment last week. We cut them up and now we have sleds!”

“And you’re planning to make hills out of—?” A crash down the hall and high-pitched laughter from the bottom of the staircase answered his question. 

Spike looked at Dawn, then down the hall, and then at Dawn again before deciding that he was too old to babysit overgrown, superpowered children. “Have fun, pet. Try not to die, yeah? Sis’ll be cross and I’ll have to deal with it.” 

Dawn gave him a lazy salute and scampered down the hall. 

Spike wandered towards the library with a newspaper in hand. The internet had failed him so far; he hoped for better luck with a good old-fashioned paper. Lots of places put out ads with sales and whatnot, so with any luck at all, he might find his perfect gift buried in the adverts. The library was one of the quieter places in the house, so he’d not be disturbed. 

That’s what he thought, at least, until he opened the door and ran right into Buffy. Spike quickly slid the paper behind his back, hoping she hadn’t seen. “Hello, luv! What brings you here?” 

Buffy raised an eyebrow and kissed his cheek. “I do sort of live here too, Spike.” 

“Oh, right. Catchin’ up on some reading then?” Christ, he was pathetic. A century of blood, mayhem, and swagger, and his bird walking through the door made him go off his trolley. 

Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice. “Nah, Giles asked me to find something about our little demon friends from a few nights ago. Now I’m off to wrap Christmas presents before the world tries to blow up again.” 

“Good idea, pet. Best be off, then. Never know when some new baddie will show up!” He’d never wished for Dru’s thrall more—if he could just get her to  _ leave _ !

“You’re probably right. Hey, I could bring the stuff in here and wrap them, so I can keep you company.” She gave him a heated look—the kind that promised all sorts of lovely distractions. 

Oh, he’d keep her company all ri—wait, no. He was there on a mission, as evidenced by the paper crinkling against his back. With a sigh and a promise to himself that he’d see to her later, Spike kissed her forehead and put a hand in the middle of her back to nudge her around towards the door. “Best not, precious. Knowing us, you’ll end up with no wrapped presents and some potentially deadly paper cuts if we have too much fun with the paper.” 

Buffy pouted, but didn’t resist. “Fine, spoilsport. I’ll see you later, then?” 

“Course, luv, have fun!” There, she was leaving now. Success!

“Hey, Spike?” Balls. 

“Yes, luv?” 

“Can I borrow that newspaper for a sec before I go? There’s been a couple of weird break-ins down by the river in the past few weeks. I thought maybe there’d be something in the news.” 

She didn’t know. He reminded himself that there was absolutely no way she actually knew why he had the paper and forced himself to pull out the paper from behind his back and hand it to her. “Sure, luv. All yours.” 

It was all he could do to keep from twitching every time she flipped a page. Angelus’s most creative torture had nothing on keeping still while she carefully scanned the paper for clues. After what felt like an age, she pulled out two pages and handed the rest back. “Thanks, baby.” She gave him a quick kiss and walked away. 

When she was out of sight, Spike sat down heavily in one of the chairs and ran a hand through his hair. He was going to dust before this Christmas bollocks was all over and done with, he was sure. 

He opened the paper and went straight to the adverts. Pet groomers—no, not unless getting Harris a good bath counted as a Christmas gift. Personalized skywriting—with his luck, she’d miss it. Carolers for hire to sing outside your door—bloody hell, no. There had to be something there. There just had to be—Oh. Oh, that could—that was it! 

  
  


**_T-2 Days_ **

It had taken everything in him to not leave immediately after finding that advert the night before. He’d had his coat on and been halfway out the door when Dawn had come careening through the library door and begged for his help. “An emergency”, she’d said. “You’re my only hope”, she’d said. Never let it be said that Spike let his women down. 

They’d run down the halls, Spike questioning who was attacking and whether anyone was hurt. He hadn’t heard any screams, but he was sure they’d start soon. As they approached the front door, he finally heard them—high and panicked and...laughing? Spike had thrown the doors open, demon face at the fore, only to get hit with something cold and firm right in the face. He’d roared in surprise, the sound echoing across the suddenly silent courtyard. 

When he swiped the remnants of the projectile away from his face, the scene in front of him left him flummoxed. A...snowball fight? The entire lot of mini Slayers was spread out behind trees and snow forts with hands full of white powder, and...was that Willow hiding behind that wall?

Right. He had two options: turn and stalk away with his dignity still somewhat intact, or go to war. One of the Slayers made the mistake of giggling at the snow all over his head, making the choice for him. It was a gruesome affair and he took no prisoners. Needless to say, by the time they’d had enough—Niblet crowed for hours about their ‘epic victory’—Spike had not felt up to going back out again to the shops. Better to spend the remaining hours of the night with his girls and a cup of hot chocolate. 

Tonight, though, nothing—and he meant  _ nothing _ —was going to get in his way. He left Buffy happily stirring away at some sort of Christmas goody in the kitchen with an excuse of needing to pick up blood from the butcher, and managed to dodge every single person on his way out to the car park. 

The roads were surprisingly clear for two nights before Christmas, but Spike wasn’t about to complain. He hoped that the shop he needed would still be open; the paper had said it would be, but one never knew with holiday hours. He wove his way through the snow-covered streets, thankful for a moment of quiet and solitude. He pulled up to the shop and let out a sigh of relief. Still open. 

Spike wandered inside, a little bell sounding above his head when he opened the door. An elderly gentleman stood up from behind the counter and greeted him with a soft Scottish brogue. 

“And what can I do for you, laddie? A bit of last-minute holiday shopping?” 

“Uh, yeah. Saw your advert in the paper and…” Spike trailed off, suddenly unsure of his choice. 

The man’s eyes twinkled—honest-to-God twinkled—as he laughed. “Got a young lady on your mind, then? Guessing you aren’t out shopping for your mum, this late.” 

Spike chuckled and rubbed a hand up the back of his neck. “Yeah, mate. Our first Christmas, you know.” 

The man clapped his hands in delight. “Well, that’s something special, isn’t it? Come on, lad, I’ll set you up with what you need.” 

Spike listened carefully as the man explained his options and the benefits of each. There were so many things to choose from; he’d had easier times choosing weapons to decapitate enemies than selecting the right gift for his lady. Within twenty minutes, he’d narrowed it down to two, and he stared intently at the different options; one more delicate and traditionally ladylike, and the other sturdier but still lovely. 

He made his choice and then let himself be led over to the “accessories”. There he sat for nearly an hour, laboring over what the right selection would be. He’d chosen one right off, but wanted another and could not find something that he felt suited the message he wanted to send with this gift. 

Finally, an idea struck, and Spike asked the man about his stance on custom orders. The man’s eyes twinkled again when he assured Spike that he could do what he needed very quickly. 

Thirty minutes later, Spike walked out of the shop with his purchases in hand and a grin on his face. He’d done it, he was sure. He imagined Buffy’s face when he gave his gift to her and wondered if he’d be able to wait till Christmas morning. 

  
  


**_T-1 Days_ **

Spike had been on edge all evening. Christmas Eve was apparently some big to-do for most of the house’s residents, so he’d been roped in to things like cookie decorating—you bet your arse he’d put little fangs on every single little gingerbread man—and carol karaoke—bloody hell, no. He’d endured it all with as much patience as could be bought with the glasses of sherry Rupert kept shoving in his hands. After a few hours, though, he’d had enough and figured he ought to leave before he did something that made Buffy mad at him. 

Speaking of whom, where had she gone to? Spike looked around the room but didn’t see his girl’s distinctive form anywhere, even though he was sure she’d been there a few minutes before. 

“Looking for someone?” Willow asked him, bending down by his chair with a mysterious smile. 

“Yeah, where’d the Slayer pop off to? She was here a moment ago, wasn’t she?” 

Willow shrugged casually. “I think I saw her slip out about five minutes ago. She said something about needing to check up on something upstairs. We’re probably going to play another game in a few minutes, actually. Would you mind going to get her?” 

Leave the oversaturated, girly chaos for a few minutes  _ and _ steal a Christmas snog? “Oh yeah, sure. Be happy to.” 

He didn’t run out of the room, but only just. What could Buffy be doing? Had she needed her own break from all the merriment? Well, they could just hide in bed and be Grinches together—he certainly wouldn’t mind. He took the steps two at a time and wandered toward her room, wondering how much longer they’d wait before “moving in” together. It had been a topic of conversation more than once, but both of them agreed that having personal space was good for now.

He knocked lightly on her door and waited for her cheery, “Come in!” 

Twisting the doorknob, he pushed the door open and entered. “Hiding away, are we, Slay—” He stopped short. 

There, all spread out on her bed, dressed in a see-through red and white Santa teddy, was his Slayer. White fur lined the edges, a little red bow sat between her tits, and— _ oh fuck— _ there were little bells on either side of her hips. 

Buffy gave him a sultry grin and murmured, “Merry Christmas, baby. Wanna unwrap your present?” 

Why yes, yes he did. Without a word, he crossed the room all but leapt onto the bed before sweeping her into his arms for a deep kiss. She pulled back to giggle and tease, “Wow, Spike—is that a candy cane or are you just happy to see me?”, but he pulled her right back to his lips again. 

He pressed his already insistent erection against her mound and growled, “What do you think? Now lie still, I’m unwrapping, aren’t I?” 

Buffy smiled warmly at him and lay back, her hands stretching above her head. Spike sat up on his knees for a moment and took her in. Words flashed through his mind like Christmas lights as he looked at her. Angelic. Beatific. Ethereal. He brought his hands to her legs and ran them up her red, lacy stockings until he reached the top. “Just can’t decide, luv, so you’ll have to help me.” He ran his fingers lightly over the edges and shivered at her moan when he skipped right over her jingly knickers. “With such lovely wrapping on my gift, should I open it slowly,” his fingertips barely swept over the smooth skin of her belly. “Or should I rip it off like an overeager child?” 

“Rip it off - definitely rip it off!” The desperation in her voice made him grin. Oh, how tempted he was to give her what she wanted. 

“No, I don’t think I will. Such a precious gift deserves to be savored… appreciated...treasured.” He circled a satin-covered nipple with the tip of his finger; then, unable to resist, his tongue. 

There was a strip of satin just above the furry edges of her top piece, and Spike rubbed it between his fingers, humming appreciatively. He pulled the hem up, revealing the soft skin of her belly, and teased it with the fur. 

Buffy moaned and buried one of her hands in his hair. He was glad he’d skipped the gel today as her fingers tangled in his curls and tugged just hard enough to hurt in a good way. God, what this woman did to him with just a touch!

He released the fur, returning to her breasts and circling her nipples with his thumbs. The breathy noises she made beneath him made his cock twitch, and he suddenly realized that if he left her little knickers on as he fucked her, he could make her ‘jingle all the way’. This outfit was the best idea she’d ever had! 

He pulled the satin aside and drew one of her nipples into his mouth, the smooth material of her top soft against his face, and ground his cock against her core. She whimpered in response, spreading her legs to cradle his hips. He began a slow grind against her pussy as he sucked firmly on her breasts, nibbling at the tips lightly through the material of the lingerie. 

“Spike, please...” Buffy’s eyes were closed, her lips parted in heaving breaths as she begged. 

“Please what, sweet? I’m a bit busy enjoying my lovely gift, as you can see.” To make his point, Spike bit down sharply on her nipple, causing Buffy to squeal in surprise. 

“Touch me! Please touch me!” She raised her hips to grind against him, but Spike pulled away, denying her the friction she needed.

“Now, now, darling. I thought this was my gift. Are you saying I can’t enjoy it as I see fit?”

She gave him a desperate glare but quieted. He leaned up to kiss her again, his tongue delving into her mouth, and groaned at her taste—always so sweet. Every part of his woman was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted, and he’d never get enough. Speaking of tasting—

Spike broke away from her lips and laid a trail of fiery kisses down her body until he was face to face with the most brilliant pair of knickers ever made. “Now, I want you to listen carefully, my love. Are you listening?”

“Mhmm, so with the listening here,” Buffy whimpered, writhing underneath him, squeezing her thighs as close together as she could with his body between them. 

“Since you bought me such a lovely gift with these brilliant little bells, I want you to do something. I want you to sing  _ Jingle Bells _ while I enjoy your pretty pussy. If you can make it through the whole song without cumming, I’ll give  _ you _ a very special gift. Can you do that for me, precious?”

Buffy just stared at him for a moment; it was an adoring look, like he’d solved world hunger, given her a week off of Slaying, and presented her with the world’s best chocolate all in one. She choked out, “I...I think I can do that.” 

“There’s a good girl, pet. Now lie back and start singing.” 

As soon as she started to hesitantly sing the first line, he swept his tongue over the material of her knickers, right on top of her clit. 

She broke off the word “way” with a squeal; then took a deep breath and kept going to the next line. He grinned and continued to tease, running his tongue up and down, the wet satin too smooth against her sensitive skin to give her what she wanted. 

When she got to the part about “dashing through the snow”, he spread her legs and shoved his tongue as far into her as it would go with her knickers still in the way. She screamed her way through the line, her thighs trembling in the effort to hold back her orgasm. Her trembling made the little bells shake all the more, and Spike had to thrust against the mattress for some relief for his aching cock. Soon—so very soon. 

When she got to “bells on Bobtail ring”, Spike took his mouth away for a moment and slowly pulled the smooth material taut against her pussy, not stopping until it had slipped between the lips and was pressed firmly against her clit. Buffy panted her way through the line, breaking off with a little sob when he slowly drew the satin back and forth across her sensitive skin. 

By the time she got to the final refrain, Buffy was shaking so hard that the bells sounded like a heavy metal Christmas carol. Her breath hitched with every other word, and the lines were interspersed with gasps of “Oh God, Spike—Yes!”, but she made it. As she sang the final word, he buried his face into the satin and sharply sucked her clit into his mouth. She shattered beneath him, her screams echoing in his ears as she bucked up against his lips. Spike groaned, pressing his cock firmly into the mattress to keep from coming himself. 

He crawled up to lie next to her as she took great heaving breaths. When she was able to speak again, she gave him a wide grin and proclaimed, “Best. Boyfriend. Ever!” 

Spike chuckled and nudged her nose with his. “Best present ever. Not that I’m finished with it, mind. Just figured I’d give you a moment to remember how to breathe."

Buffy’s grin turned predatory at his words. She rolled him to his back and swung her legs over to straddle him; then, she picked up the Santa hat that had fallen off sometime in the middle of her song and set it at a jaunty angle on her head. “You know,” she mused, “if I’m Santa, I think that makes you my sleigh. After all, I do plan to ride you all night long.”

Spike laughed, deciding there and then that it just didn’t get better than this. Back in their darker days, when they’d been determined to break each other, he never could have imagined a Buffy who would tease him or play with him. It was more wonderful than he could have dreamed, and it was  _ real _ .

“Better quit that wiggling, sweet, or I’ll be stuffing your stocking with something other than gifts before you know it.”

She dissolved in giggles—with a few snorts added in, though he’d never mention it. “Eww, Spike, that’s gross!” 

“What? You’re the one who started all the bloody puns! Just going off your example, pet.” 

With a sassy smirk, she rubbed her sodden knickers against his erection, his groan of desire just making her smile wider. “Well, whatever you are, you are entirely too dressed for this party. The clothes—lose ’em.” 

“Or what?” 

She lifted her chin imperiously. “Or else you’ll be on the naughty list!” 

Spike gave her a toothy smile and growled low in his chest. “Oh, pet, you say that like I don’t  _ want _ to be on the naughty list.”

“Okay, well, yes. There is that. Fine, lose them or we can’t have sex, which will just make us both cranky.” 

Spike nudged her off and stripped faster than he’d ever done before. “You make a compelling argument, my love.” 

When he rejoined her on the bed, she pushed him back onto his back. 

“Gonna punish me for my wicked ways, Santa?” 

“Oh, no, Spike,” Buffy purred. She straddled him again, rubbing the drenched satin against his cock, causing him to moan and grip her hips tightly. “I’m going to reward you for being such—a—good—boy.” With each word, she lowered herself a bit more onto his aching hardness and, once she’d fully settled herself onto him, she smirked and joked, “Well, now I know why Santa’s always so jolly!” 

The wet warmth surrounding his cock was almost too much after nearly coming just from watching her orgasm. Spike held her still for a moment, taking a few deep breaths before beginning a slow, steady rock in and out of her body. Buffy’s eyes slid closed, her nails digging sharply into his pectorals, the slight pain making him hiss in pleasure; he thrust deeper in response and whimpered when she clenched her muscles around him. 

Buffy pushed lightly on his chest and opened her eyes to stare into his. “Be patient, baby. Just lie back and let me take care of you, now.” 

Spike swallowed thickly and nodded, leaning back and releasing her hips. He needn’t have worried: Buffy set a slow, rolling pace that had him gripping the sheets in no time. She was a goddess, his love, as she moved above him, making the bells tinkle happily—she’d left them on and just shoved them to the side. Bless his girl, she did know what he liked. With every roll of her hips, they jingled and jangled until Spike was sure he’d never be able to hear a Christmas bell without getting a stiffy again. 

She picked up her pace, holding tight to his shoulders and whispering sweet things to him. Buffy was hardly silent in bed, but usually it was him who did most of the talking when they were naked. This time, though, her words made him feel like his heart could beat. 

“God, Spike...so good. Always so good with you. Love how you make me feel—how we feel together. Feels like love, doesn’t it, baby? I’ll never get tired of loving you like this...”

It was a strange thing to feel tears slide down his cheeks when he came, but he quickly decided that it was the most beautiful feeling he’d ever had. Her deep moan and shudder above him let him know that she’d come with him, so he didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her and pull her close as they both rode out their climaxes. 

They lay together for a long time; Spike ran his hands softly through her hair and murmured his love into her ear until they both drifted off to sleep, still connected in every way. 

  
  


**_Christmas morning_ **

“Spike? Spike, wake up!” 

Spike grumbled and tried to roll away from the insistent voice, to no avail. He cracked an eye open to find Buffy smiling down at him warmly.

“’S too early, luv. Wake me in a bit, yeah?”

“No, you doof! It’s Christmas morning!” 

He opened his eyes fully to look at her. He didn’t think she should be able to look quite so innocently adorable while still wearing her naughty lingerie, but he did have a woman of many talents. “That right? So it is. But since we’re adults, we can go right back to sleep, right?” 

Buffy thwacked him with a pillow, pouting. “No, no more sleeping! Time to wake up for presents now!” 

Spike couldn’t help but chuckle at her. “The very spirit of patience, aren’t you, precious?” 

She waved a hand dismissively. “Patient-smatient. It’s Christmas! There are no rules about patience on Christmas!”

Resigned to the fact that he’d get no more sleep, Spike sat up and stretched dramatically. When he lowered his arms and glanced at Buffy, she was glaring at him. “What? A bloke can’t stretch after a good kip?” 

“You know what you did. Now come on, let’s go see if there are prezzies!” She was halfway out of bed before he grabbed her wrist. 

“And you intend to go inspect this in your pretty nightie, do you?” 

He laughed when she glanced down and blushed. 

“Well...well...gimme a minute and I’ll get dressed!” 

Spike tilted his head thoughtfully. “You could do that. Or, I could give you a prezzie that’s right in this room.”

“Spike, sex later, presents now.” 

He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Glad as I am to hear that you consider my cock a gift, that wasn’t what I meant. Sit your arse down, woman, and be patient for a moment!” 

He rolled out of bed as she obediently sat back down and went to retrieve the small package that had been in his back pocket the whole time. 

Buffy’s eyes sparkled happily when he placed it in her hands, and he fought down the jolt of worry that she wouldn’t like it. “Slayer, before you open it…”

“Yes?”

“Well, if it’s not right, try to take it as it was meant, yeah? It’s been a long bloody time since I had to worry about a first Christmas gift, and I might have bollixed it without meaning to.” 

She looked confused for a moment, before giving him a soft, loving smile. “Spike, it’s a gift from you. It’s a gift I get from you because you’re actually here and we’re actually together. There’s no wrong answer here.” 

He looked at her skeptically but nodded in acknowledgement; then cleared his throat and urged, “Well, go on then, have a look.” 

Buffy didn’t rip the wrapping as he’d expected from her earlier enthusiasm. She unwrapped it carefully, as though whatever it contained was precious and fragile. When she uncovered the small box within, she shot him a questioning look before looking back down at her gift. The top came off slowly, and for a moment she just stared at it. Then she started to tear up. “Oh, Spike…” 

Panic welled up in his chest. “Aw, Slayer—I told you I’d bollix it all up. I can try to return—”

“No!” 

Spike’s eyes widened in surprise at her outburst. “Luv, really, it’s okay. I understand—”

“No, you really don’t!” She held the contents of the box in her hand carefully. Spike saw the shine of the silver bracelet, made of sturdy chain links with tiny vines engraved on each one. At each end of the chain there was a charm: one side held a silver filigree heart, the other a tiny, custom-made silver spike. “Spike...it’s beautiful.” 

He sent her an anxious look. “Yeah? It’s a charm bracelet. Bloke at the shop had all sorts of little things to put on it. You’re meant to pick out charms of things that are important to you and I didn’t—didn’t want to presume, so I just got the two. He said it’s fairly sturdy silver, but if it were to snap, he can fix it in his shop, no trouble.” 

Tears shone in her eyes and she gave him a watery smile. “It’s perfect, Spike. Absolutely perfect. Thank you so much!” She held out a wrist to him. “Put it on me?” 

He took the bracelet from her with shaking hands and carefully clasped it around her wrist. It looked lovely on her, but he’d known that it would. He pressed a soft kiss to the inside of her wrist; then her lips. 

Buffy sighed against his lips happily. “Merry Christmas, Spike. I love you.” 

“Happy Christmas, my love.” 

And it was. 

  
  



End file.
